


Doing Something

by shulamithbond



Series: Reality X [7]
Category: Friday the 13th Series (Movies), Loki media (brief), Misery - Stephen King, Nightmare on Elm Street (1984), Nightmare on Elm Street (2010), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Ableism, Autism, Canon Disabled Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Disability, Disabled Character, Disabled Character of Color, F/M, Mary Sue, Mental Health Issues, Rare Fandoms, Revenge, Scams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2017-12-04 14:27:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shulamithbond/pseuds/shulamithbond
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I originally wrote the first two chapters of this for the Day of Mourning 2013, a day commemorating people with disabilities who were murdered by their caregivers and whose murders were excused, either overtly or covertly, as mercy killings. I decided it might be perceived as not respectful enough for the day, and didn't post it then, but I decided to post it now and see what happens.</p><p>(EDIT: Since then, this has become kind of a cathartic response for me when ableist things happen. Therefore, TW for ableist violence.)</p><p>I'm aware that my characterization probably sucks. I do what I want.</p><p>TW: for discussion of ableism, rape, mercy killings, and mild fatphobia. Also, Freddy Krueger kills someone, so yeah.</p><p>All characters in this work are entirely fictional; any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Dark

        Bill McCarthy, better known to the American public – or at least the American daytime-TV-watching public – as “Dr. Bill,” drove up the dark street, pulled up to his tasteful McMansion, and took a minute to collect himself before getting out of the car and walking through the new dark up the driveway and into the dark house.

        He didn’t know what was happening to him; he hadn’t felt like this about…well, about the _dark_ …in years; not since he was a little boy.

        Maybe it was the taping of the show today.

        Normally, Dr. Bill had a great time on his show. The triumphant opening music, the cheering of the live audience, culled from among his fans, and of course the knowledge that he really was helping people – all of it was exhilarating. Whether it was setting spoiled teenagers straight, giving overweight people some tough love for the sake of their health, or just sitting back and listening as family arguments dissolved into yelling, ad hominem, and the odd thrown chair before his eyes, he truly did thank God every day that he got to do this for a living. (Of course, he’d worked hard for it.)

         But sometimes, the producers decided that to preserve the public image of an actual therapeutic show, things had to get a bit more serious. Domestic abuse survivors, rape survivors, drug addiction interventions…Dr. Bill couldn’t explain why exactly he found those episodes so draining – so hateful. Sometimes he felt that they touched him, but intrusively, cold as a doctor’s stethoscope, and peeled away something inside him, which stung and irritated, like a bad itch he couldn’t scratch. He left those episodes feeling…exposed.

         Today had been one of those episodes. A woman in some backwater town out west had murdered her nonverbal autistic sister, before turning the gun on herself. Dr. Bill was grateful for the show’s writers, because if he hadn’t had a script in the form of notes on what to say, he didn’t know how he would even have approached it. The whole story was just such a giant, looming dark mass of tragedy – how could you ever even begin to chip it down and model it into something television-shaped? It was just…too much.

         He hadn’t been able to disguise his sympathy for both women – the poor woman who was murdered, of course, not least because of the life she’d had before her death (was there something about her death that brought relief, considering what her life had been?). But also the sister – the poor woman had been clearly out of her mind, utterly worn down by the realities of her life, as much a victim of autism as her handicapped sister.

        He’d stuck to the script. Acting sad and sympathetic hadn’t been hard. And he’d gotten through it. And now it was over, and he was home.

        But there was still the dark.

        It didn’t get better when the garage door opener wouldn’t work. Finally he resolved himself to leaving his car out, possibly for the night, and went in by the front door. He flicked a light switch experimentally, to no avail. In the shadowy kitchen, the clocks on the stove and microwave flashed, inaccurate digits frozen on their stricken screens.

         Power outage.

         Dr. Bill fought the urge to crumple where he stood. He realized how close he was to panic. What was wrong with him? Why was he so afraid of the dark? He was a grown man, America’s favorite therapist!

         Someone was watching him. Someone was with him in the house, watching him.

         His children were grown. His wife was out for a girls’ night. They hadn’t had pets since the kids had lived with them.

         Someone was there. He could feel it.

         “Hello?” His voice echoed in the dark house. He didn’t think any of the windows were broken, no obvious signs of a break-in…but how could you tell in darkness?

         Doing everything he could to keep it together, he reached for the flashlight on top of the refrigerator, and clicked it on.

          “Hey, _doctor_ ,” growled a voice in his ear.

 

* * *

 

        

        Dr. Bill tripped and fell to the floor. It didn’t matter anyway; wherever he ran, the man followed him. Even now, he could see the figure looming up through the shadows, the faint glow of streetlights through the windows glinting off his knives – or were they claws?

         Now, the knife-claws made a brain-scraping shriek as the man dragged them across wall, furniture, and glass. Dr. Bill stifled a scream.

         “Why?” he croaked. “Who…who are you? Why are you doing this to me?”

         The man in the fedora sniggered. “You want to know why? You really want to know? Well, okay, doc: it’s because you’re a fucking coward.”

         “W-w-what?”

        “If you think people are burdens, why not just fucking go be a Nazi? That’ll cure ‘em good. That’ll cure everybody good. If people’s problems make you so much money, don’t put on a big production of trying to ‘help’ them. You don’t want them better. You want them to keep on needing you. Don’t deny it. Just follow the money.”

        “What?...No! No, I want to help”-

        “Oh, yeah? And how does putting people all over the TV so the country can laugh at them help them, exactly? You do this because it makes you a buck. Stop telling yourself there’s any other reason.” He shook his head. “Professional head-shrinks like you give the rest of ‘em a bad name.” He bent down close, and Dr. Bill recoiled from his face, which was extremely burned, covered in scars and boils.

         “You didn’t know that woman,” he hissed, and now his voice was dead serious. “The autistic one? You didn’t fucking know her. You didn’t know one thing about her, except that her bitch of a sister decided to off her. But you made it into the same fucking message that they get to hear all the damn time, about how if someone hurts them, it’s because of who they are. Right, like it’s their own brains’ fault and not the person who fucking hurt them in the first place. And then people fucking cry over the abusers. Fuck that shit.”

         _Why does he care?_ Dr. Bill found himself thinking rebelliously. _Sneaking into people’s houses and attacking them in the dark? And then criticizing me for not caring about people with autism?_

         The man grabbed a fistful of short hair and yanked the TV therapist’s head back, exposing his throat. “You know, if a scary man was about to kill me in the dark, I don’t think I’d be asking so many personal questions. Never you mind why I give a shit. Your problem now is that I do, and what I’m gonna do about it.”

         “Y-y-you read my mind”-

        “Yep, and now I’m gonna kill you with it.” Bill felt the blades zip almost painlessly across his throat, and couldn’t even scream as the dark rose up like a sea from behind his eyes, and crashed over him, swallowing him fully.


	2. The Quiet Room

         Freddy thought about taking the television doctor’s head with him, but ended up leaving it behind. For a second, he thought it might make a cool present. Then, it occurred to him in a flash of insight – rare, but increasingly common – that it would probably make things worse.

        The humid warmth of the air curled tendrils of vapor around him as he re-entered the boiler room. Up a catwalk, between a narrow doorway-like space, framed by two clusters of skinny, almost red-hot pipes that were bunched like strange saplings on either side, and he came to the central space of the part of the lair that guests – meaning people who were supposed to live for longer than about sixty seconds after entering – usually came to. There was some actual furniture there, and doorways; to Freddy’s workshop, to a room that was usually some kind of kitchen-like space, and to a room that could be some kind of bathroom, if necessary.

       And, now, a newer door. QUIET ROOM, it said in large, ominous letters.

       He never got over that. The idea of using some huge, culturally traumatic icon as your sex toy. That had to be some weird kind of reclamation, didn’t it? Probably. It was fucking clever, in a pervy kind of way, in any case.

       He opened it quietly, just a crack, so that he could peer in.

       Aoife was sleeping peacefully now. Despite the lair's heat, she had buried herself under the heaviest blankets he had. The bed was back to its usual frilly, ornate design – most nights, it was supposed to look like a girl’s four-poster “princess bed.”

        Apart from the silk scarves - or sometimes they were cuffs - tied to each post of the four-poster bedstead, of course.

        Tonight, earlier, Aoife had needed it to look like a rough cot bolted to a concrete floor in a stark room, outfitted with strong leather straps that bit into her wrists and ankles whenever her body thrashed. Which it had, often. But that was normal, for sex.

        Freddy had sort of expected that; from listening with half an ear to Annie, Arianrod and Crys down at the Lonely, he knew what day it was and he knew how that was likely to affect people.

        It affected Aoife Palpatine by causing her to need fear, and pain, and release, in a controlled setting – in a safe (or relatively safe) place. A place where fear and pain were expected, and could be stopped if necessary.

         It was a watered-down version of what Freddy experienced in a dreamstalking, but it wasn’t bad, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it, so he was happy to oblige her.

        Besides, Aoife…was not a bad kid. When he’d first met her, he’d assumed from her background, dress, and general attitude that she’d be some obnoxious palace brat-

        _-He saw her standing over the enormous, crumpled, waterlogged body, her features lit by the moonlight, which reflected almost prettily off the waves of the lake, shaking with fatigue and triumph, face and clothes smeared with blood that wasn’t hers-_

         -Yeah. He’d been wrong about that.

         _We should do something, you know,_ she had murmured, stretching her newly-freed limbs as she began to drift off. _There are so many of us here…Annie, and Mikey, and Arianrod, and me…we could do something. We should try to do something about this. Because we have that power…we could use it to change things, even if it’s only a little. We could do something._

        She wasn’t wrong. They could do something. But what did he care about helping anyone, especially some random people he’d never met? And besides, under this thought he could feel himself tense, suddenly as close to anxious as he ever got anymore. No, he liked Aoife, but she was ambitious and always looking to make things more than they were. Best to stay in the Dead Zone, dreamstalk who he wanted, and leave the politics and social justice to people like Annie, Crys, Arianrod, and Aoife, who were empathetic enough to give a shit about it.

        _Although,_ he thought, remembering the taste of Bill McCarthy’s fear and the warmth of the spurting blood on his hands, _I guess I did do something after all. That ought to make her happy._


	3. Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another random thing I wrote after I read this post (TW: rape, ableism, misogyny): http://shulamithbond.tumblr.com/post/52273377613/back-in-2009-a-7th-grade-special-education
> 
> This may end up being my cathartic response when really terrible ableist stuff happens.
> 
> I may edit this chapter more in the future. Meanwhile, TW for rape discussion, and gore.

        Freddy was used to finding Aoife in his lair when he got home. He had long ago stopped interrogating himself over whether this meant he was somehow “whipped” or “going soft,” because he found he didn’t care. He had always done what he wanted, and he wanted Aoife around. He was man enough to admit that. Let Bo Sinclair and his band of one-shot, second-tier excuses for slashers talk.

        What was unusual was to find her dressed in her most functional jeans and boots, and her favorite leather jacket, hair pulled back, walking stick strapped across her back, filling her old school bag with her headphones (or whatever they called the gadget where she was from), what looked like some supplies,  and a book. “Hey, kiddo. Where you off to?”

        _I’m going to Reality A,_ she told him shortly _. I have some…business there._

        “What do you mean, ‘business’?” She gestured at her computer – or whatever they called it in her home reality; they probably had some slick high-tech name for it there – online on the sofa, open to Tumblr. Freddy groaned as he leaned over to read the screen; fucking Tumblr _again_? _It’s always some “anti-sjw” asshole on Tumblr, isn’t it? Some comment, some “reblog,” some “troll”…_

       But it wasn’t a comment; it was a quote. It told the story of…

        Well. He could see why _that_ would bother her.

        It didn’t bother _him,_ of course. Even though there was Crys now, and of course Aoife, and they’d been in high school once (of course) and the mood elicited by the thought of _that_ happening to either of them could best be described as “stabby”… No, he was Freddy Krueger and that shit definitely didn’t bother him. Not at all.

        Still…he’d never pass up an opportunity to cut some people. The fact that they were some evil little shit who’d raped a special needs girl not once, but twice, and the ableist, misogynistic assholes who’d defended him, was just icing. “That is a lot of people, though, Aoife,” he remarked as they got ready to go. “Like a real shitload of people, potentially. Depending on how far up the chain of responsibility you want to go with this.”

        _I know._

        Damn, she really was rattled. But she was turning it into anger. Contrary to popular belief, he liked a girl with some fight in her (though he wouldn't mind if the circumstances were different in this case). “Well then, let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

 

        Now, Freddy strode comfortably through the main hall of the courthouse, reconstructed through the memories of the victims. Well, “victims” – that was an odd, and somewhat rape-apologist-y (“rape apologist-y” – damn, Aoife and Crys’ feminism stuff really was starting to rub off, and in some truly bizarre ways), thing to call them. Frankly, these shitheads were victims of nothing, in the end, but their own misogyny and ableism and complacency.

        The courtroom was exactly the kind you always thought about, the kind with old wood and columns and marble floors. Floors that were now rapidly staining red.

        It was just about the tail end of a good night’s work; if it weren’t for Aoife still being triggered (he was pretty sure that was the term), Freddy would consider the night a complete success.

        And speak of the devil…

        He turned the corner and there she was. She had backed up the kid – the rapist – into a corner, and Freddy was silently pleased and vindicated to see that yes, the kid looked like one of those little entitled suburban fuckers who went around quoting Ayn Rand or some shit, or rapping along with Kanye (n-words and all) even though he was white (these pricks always were white; Freddy didn’t care if that made him “reverse racist” or something, it was true).

        Something was off about the scene, and it took him a minute to figure out what. Then he realized – she didn’t have her lightsaber. She was armed, of course, but not with that. Instead, it was the sword with the actual metal blade.

        Here in this dream, the blade looked…old. Rusty. Able to cut, but probably awhile since the last time anyone had sharpened it.

       Freddy couldn’t contain his wide grin. He’d never tell her so – he was pretty sure she wouldn’t like it – but he sometimes thought he liked Aoife best at times like this: in a fight, or in bed, when she finally let her twisted side out to play.

        She had told him the first time they ever really talked: _I’m not one of the “good guys.”_ At the time, he hadn’t believed her; she was newly eighteen – still a kid – what did she know? All teenagers thought they were so deep and complex. But since then, he’d seen her in action. He knew her better now, both sides of her. Despite himself, he’d gotten a little warm to both sides of her. He could admit that.

        But he did like her dark side.

        The rapist looked ready to shit himself. “P-p-please…” he was whimpering. He looked up at Freddy. “P-p-please, you gotta help me”- He fell silent as he registered who Freddy was.

        _You’re the worst kind of bully,_ Aoife told the boy. _You couldn’t even go after someone who had even a shot at anything like justice. You’re a fucking coward. There’s nothing I can do that will even come close to making what you did all right again_. She pulled back the blade. _But I’ll still try._

       Even Freddy gave an appreciative wince as Aoife sank the blade straight into the boy’s groin. She reeled back, temporarily stunned by the blood and the noise as the boy’s screams filled the hall, but she was already recovering; she skewered his stomach this time, and he writhed on the blade. _Like a bug on a pin,_ Freddy thought.

       Aoife withdrew again, and as she turned away momentarily – both thrilled and sickened by the whole thing, he could feel it – Freddy saw the tears running silently down her blood-smeared face.

       Still, he knew to wait for her to finish it.

       She plunged the sword into his chest, pressing it through until it protruded out his back, and his screams had dissolved into gurgles, and finally silence.

       He gave her a minute, and then he spoke. “He was the last of ‘em.”

        _Good._ She was shaking. _Thanks._

        “Come on, kid. Let’s get out of here.”


	4. Crystal Lake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Random flashback time, because of reasons.
> 
> TW: Aoife unknowingly uses what I've been informed is some ableist terminology to reference a wheelchair-reliant person. I think this is consistent with her characterization as someone who's just starting to get involved in Earth's disability self-advocacy movement, but I understand it could be hard to read for wheelchair users.
> 
> (And I think the documentary Aoife is referencing is "His Name was Jason: 30 Years of Friday the 13th," but honestly I don't remember for sure where on TV I saw this clip and the commentary in question accompanying it. so don't quote me on that.)

          _Where the hell did she go?_

         It figured that the one night he wasn't watching her out of some perverse curiosity, she'd decide to disappear and leave Annie and everyone else in hysterics.

        Driving down through the now-dark woods, Freddy sent his mind on ahead, searching for Aoife's. He’d be able to feel her mind anywhere at this point. He knew the shape of it well, even though there were some parts of it that she kept too deeply buried even for someone like him to see.

 

         He didn’t know how long he’d been driving. Time didn’t make a lot of sense in this context, since he wasn’t moving through normal space (there was no point; this was more efficient). But he had the feeling he’d gone a long way, and was far away from Salem’s Lot. The woods outside didn’t look too familiar.

         He could feel her close.

         She was afraid.

* * *

 

         He pulled up at the camp, and it didn’t surprise him at all that she’d be there. Aoife seemed like the kind of person who did dangerous things, out of some inner drive to test her luck. Or maybe to prove to herself that she could.

        A scream rang out in the moist night air, previously broken only by the sounds of peeper frogs, not yet asleep for the season, and then the night rolled back in.

 

* * *

 

 

         But the action was already over when he got to her.

         He entered the cabin prepared for the scene – the door wrenched off its hinges, the furniture overturned – and he prepared himself for the sight of Aoife, slumped against the wall or maybe laid on the floor with surprising gentleness, drenched in red and staring at nothing. He wondered later why the idea of it bothered him so much; god knew he’d seen plenty of dead teens before.

         He turned and looked at where the body was slumped. And stared.

         That was not Aoife Palpatine.

         Something stirred in the corner behind him, and he turned, and there was Aoife. She was soaked, covered in mud and blood – not hers – and curled up on herself protectively against the plywood-thin cabin wall, shivering in the cold, clammy air.

          Freddy looked back at the body of Jason Voorhees, and then down at Aoife. “Come on, Princess. He’ll be back up again soon enough. We better not be here when he is.” He hauled her up – she was stiff and shaking pretty bad, shrinking from him, and her skin was like ice – and they staggered back to the Chevy together. He put her in the front seat, and materialized a blanket for her. To his mild surprise and frustration, she kicked it off; after a minute or two he realized the problem. It was too scratchy, probably. He made it softer, and sure enough, she relaxed inside it. He felt weirdly proud of himself for divining that.

          _Wait._ Freddy gave a slight jump to hear her voice in his mind for the first time that evening. _Just…wait._ She didn’t seem to be able to say more.

         A faint sound of metal smoothness hung in the air like the moonlight, and then out of the woods, from the direction of the cabin, came her walking stick, and floated itself into the car’s back seat, where it came to rest. It was lacquered black and ornate with silver filigrees; Freddy now realized that the fancy silver decorations were clasps. The staff contained her lightsaber hilt, he now saw, plus a concealed traditional sword with a non-laser blade. They screwed into each other in a somewhat ingenious way; he’d always had sort of an interest in putting shit together, which had come in handy with the knife-glove. It was sort of clever, when you thought about it – people saw her using a walking stick and assumed it was some kind of handicap-related thing, that it had to do with physical weakness, and never even considered the possibility that she was armed. Ironic, or something.

          Freddy started feeling calmer as they pulled away and out of the camp’s front gate, and since Aoife didn’t seem ready to start talking again, he switched on the radio.

_“I am a passenger_

_And I ride and I ride_

_I ride through the city’s backside_

_I see the stars come out of the sky_

_Yeah they’re bright in a hollow sky_

_You know it looks so good tonight…”_

          It occurred to him belatedly that the music might be making Aoife’s overstimulation – that was probably what it was; apparently that could happen sometimes with autism, according to Arianrod and Annie – worse than it already was. But when he glanced over, she looked more relaxed, even more lucid, than before.

 

* * *

 

 

         By the time they pulled up to the Lonely, just a few miles from home now, she was enjoying the music. Flapping. That was oddly okay with Freddy. He was used to watching Arianrod do it. But she did more than flap; her body strained against itself to dance in her seat, or just sink into the rhythm of the songs and move with them. It was strangely similar to how she’d looked that one night he watched her touching herself. Straining at some kind of restraint, physical or psychological or both, for a release she knew was out there somewhere but which was hard to reach, like climbing a mountain. It was sort of beautiful; almost kind of poetic. Freddy shook his head silently to himself. He was the least psychologically-inclined person he knew (aside from Mikey; it was anyone’s guess what he thought about), and he was finding Aoife pretty interesting to observe; someone like Arianrod, Annie, or Hannibal would probably be able to write a whole paper on her. Then again, it might just be that other than Crys, he usually didn’t pay this much attention to a kid before striking.

         “Here.” He handed her the walking stick. “Figured you might be hungry.” She nodded gratefully as she climbed out of the car. The Lonely wasn’t what you’d call “accessible,” built on a small outcropping-hill-thing in the woods, and you could only reach it via stairs or by climbing up some rocks. He helped her on the stairs; her limbs were still apparently painfully stiff, probably with fatigue.

          The Lonely was blessedly empty except for Sven, and Freddy led her to one of the back booths that had its own little niche in the stone wall. “What do you want to drink?” he asked.

          _Water is fine_. She shivered. _No ice, though, please._

         Freddy nodded, and went to the bar. “Beer and a water with no ice.”

         Sven’s look of perpetual good nature flickered with concern, probably for Aoife. “Sure, Fred.” Freddy could tell the bartender/manager was trying to frame properly the question, _are you about to kill or... do anything else to someone? _He settled for, “Um…is she okay?”

         Although considering the fact that Aoife was covered in grime and gore, Freddy couldn’t actually fault him for asking. “She’s okay. She’s just had a long night. Call Annie’s cell and give her a message, too. Just tell Annie that I’ve found her – she’ll know who I mean – and we’ll be back in town soon.”

         Sven looked a hair relieved. “Sure, Fred. Coming right up.”

 

         “We got some time,” Freddy told Aoife, sliding back into the booth. “Do you want to go clean off or anything?”

         She shook her head. _Maybe a little later_. She was still too beat and sore to do anything but lean against the seatback, he realized.

         “Then can we talk?” he asked. She nodded. “Okay. What the hell were you doing at the lake?”

        _It’s stupid. And you wouldn’t understand._

        “Try me. I’ve got no love for Jason Voorhees, I’ll tell you that.”

         _He killed a boy in a wheelchair. Or, I mean, a wheelchair user, you know?_

         Freddy wouldn’t have considered himself intuitive. He didn’t think of applying those terms to himself at all. But he felt the change in her mood like some animals could feel a drop in air pressure before a storm, or something like that. This was some Annie-style shit right here, and as with Annie, his instincts were telling him _go slow here, and carefully._

         “Well,” he said as casually as he could. “I mean, that’s what slashers do. We go for teens. I mean, present company excepted of course. But you know what I mean. It wasn’t just because he was in a wheelchair, I’m sure. Hell, it probably would’ve been ‘ableist’ not to get a kid just because he was in a wheelchair, if you think about it.”

         _Well, he’s still one of…us. Or was, while he was alive. That matters. To me, anyway._ Sven brought their drinks, and she took a thirsty gulp of hers. _Besides, I saw a clip of it on the television. On a show where they were discussing the movies. And the commentators on the show were talking about how at the start they felt pity toward the boy, but then when he started having sex with a girl in the film, they joked about wanting him to die._

          “Well…” Damn, he could actually see why that might bother someone sensitive, especially someone who had a disability themselves. “I mean, that’s another slasher thing. You kill the sluts and studs off first. It’s traditional.”

         _That’s not how it was. They made it sound like a disabled person sleeping with someone was even worse than a 'normal' person doing it. As if there was something…obscene about it._ She looked down and rubbed her forehead, shoulders slumping. _As if it was horrible that a...a wheelchair reliant-person had people who wanted to sleep with him, when normal people like them didn’t._

         Freddy drank some of the beer. He realized he hadn’t asked what kind was on tap tonight, although frankly he wouldn’t have cared. “Well…yeah, I could see how that might be…upsetting.”

         She glanced out the small window cut into the wall and set with thick, green glass panes. _It’s like that with autism. It’s worse here – on Earth, I mean – in some ways, because everyone keeps comparing me to someone named Temple Grandin. Do you know about her?_

        “Do I ever.” Arianrod had used to complain about this very issue.

        _No one will ever see me as an actual adult_. She shook her head. _Not even when I actually am one. And I’m going to be a virgin forever, because no one will ever want me. Even if I met someone who did like…bigger women, they still wouldn’t have sex with an autistic person. They would probably think it was perverted._ Freddy honestly didn't know how to respond to that part.

"Of course," said his mouth instead, before he could stop it, "The whole 'ableism' thing is kind of a tough rap to pin on Voorhees - I'm not defending him - I'm just saying...'cause, you know, he's disabled."

            _What?_

          "Well...yeah. 'Special needs.' I mean, I'm not sure exactly what, like, his official diagnosis is, but it's some form of ret- of mentally challenged."

           Aoife sat still for a moment, absorbing this. Then, she bent and laid her head on the table, facedown, in silent defeat.

           Freddy sat back, feeling awkward. "Aoife...aw, hell, Aoife. He's one of us. He'll be up and at 'em again in no time."

          _Maybe it was internalized ableism_ , she said half-heartedly, as if to herself, without raising her head.

           "Sure. Could be."

            _Fuck._

           "He's gonna be fine, Aoife, I'm telling you."

           _This is what they fucking do to us!_ She raised her head and he felt her anger flaring. A few tables away, a glass salt shaker spontaneously exploded and shattered. _They pit us against each other...oh, we might be autistic but we're "high-functioning"..."people with depression aren't really disabled, it's all in their heads"..."we autistics aren't the dangerous ones, it's those mentally ill people"..._

             "Sounds like it's the normal people you and Voorhees and everyone should be ganging up on."

              _Ha. Maybe someday. No, I'm only joking_. But he caught her thoughtful look before she turned her head to try to peer out the tiny window into the dark.

 


	5. The New Mother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for discussion of ableism, kidnapping, panic attacks, breakdowns, and graphic violence.
> 
> (Based on this: http://shulamithbond.tumblr.com/post/68720244321/child-taken-from-womb-by-social-services-tw-human )
> 
> This chapter is purely cathartic. The whole event in the post really upset me as a non-NT person who wants to have kids someday. It's also just a truly horrific story. I found myself in a weird place where I wanted to write something where the people responsible for this got punished violently, but where I didn't have to write any action/graphic violence scenes, because I really couldn't; that felt too hard.
> 
> As usual, all characters mentioned are fictional; no one's real name is being used and all the personal details are made up. I own none of these characters, not even the OCs, probably.
> 
> (Incidentally, this chapter takes place a couple years after the last few. I don't know how relevant that is, though.)

        It was Steven’s first night shift. His first bloody shift.

        Some people went their whole careers as security guards without this sort of thing – well, hardly anyone ever saw _this_ sort of thing. But some people went fifty years in the job and never so much as a break-in. True, this was social services, so things could get a bit dangerous – parents who wanted their kids back too much, who didn’t understand why they’d been taken away in the first place – but _still_. There weren’t supposed to be things like _this_. It was like out of some awful imported American horror movie.

         On some level, he knew his brain was whirring away with these thoughts to distract him from his situation.

         _He’s going to find me. He’s going to hear me_. His pulse and heartbeat seemed as loud as drums in a band. He slumped lower behind the desk, trying to ignore the trickle of red liquid inching closer and closer to his khaki trousers.

        _But maybe…it seems quieter out there now_. Even though he wasn’t sure it did. That was the excuse he gave himself for peeking; he couldn’t _not_ peek, he needed to know.

        _Is he gone?_

        He raised himself onto his knees and pulled himself up on the desk chair just high enough to see-

        The corridor. _Ugh_ , the _corridor_ …

         Steven was just barely able to stifle his scream as he sank back down behind the desk.

        “What’s the matter, Stevie?” the voice growled next to his ear, and Steven did scream this time. “Not scared of a little blood, are ya?”

         Steven risked a glance at the man, and felt his stomach turn over. The man was drenched in blood, almost absurdly so. It was actually pooling in the brim of the old hat he was wearing. And it coated his glove – or were those claws?

         “You – you’ve killed the administrators,” said his mouth; Steven had no idea how he could be talking coherently, but apparently he was. “The...the higher-ups in the building. W-w-why? Why are you h-h-here?”

         The man pressed one blade-claw against Steven’s cheek, and Steven tried not to gag at the blood on his face. “You know someone called Rezia Andolini?”

        “N-n-no, I’ve never heard of”-

        “Well, all you need to know is that she came over here to do some shit and she was pregnant, and she had some kind of breakdown, so the shitheads in this building decided to sedate her and cut her kid out of her – and because she’s bipolar and off her meds on account of being knocked up, I’ve got a shit-ton of freaked out people back ho- back where I’m from who are all up in arms about it. Speaking of which…” the man turned and peered above the desk at the sound of footsteps on the linoleum.

        “Oh,” he said to whoever was standing there. “So you found it okay.”

        _Her and Ms. Andolini, yeah. I put her in the car. She’s not very lucid, so I thought I should take this one with me instead of leaving her there_. And then, in a singsong voice that Steven considered far too cheerful given the gore level of their current location, _Are you happy to be going back to your mommy? I bet you are!_ The voice seemed female. And it was in Steven’s head.

        The man’s knife-edge was no longer one millimeter from his face, and so Steven squatted and looked cautiously over the desktop.

        The frightening man was speaking to a short, solidly-built young woman in black clothes that matched her thick, rather wild black hair, which was hacked short. She was carrying against her shoulder with one arm a bundle of pink blanket that was squirming faintly, and in her other hand… “that’s a bloody lightsaber,” said his mouth, again before he could shut himself up.

        The girl cocked her head at him. _No, it’s not. Lightsabers cauterize as they cut, so they don’t get bloody, per se – the red color actually comes from the crystals inside the hilt, which-_ she paused as comprehension dawned. _Oh, right. We’re in the UK. Never mind. Yes, it is._

         The sudden pop culture moment must have jump-started something in Steven’s brain. “Wait”- he turned to the blood-covered man, curiosity overcoming his fear. “Aren’t you _Freddy Krueger?”_

         The man stared at him. “ _What?”_

         “Only my roommate and I are big fans of all your movies – and I’m not just saying that because…you know…” Steven indicated the man’s bloody glove. “Anyway…wait, are you doing this because in the sixth one they took your daughter away after they caught you – what was her name – Katherine, wasn’t it”-

         He yelped and fell silent as Krueger’s knife-glove raked across his face. “Don’t you even fucking _mention_ fucking _Wes Craven_ or his fucking _movies_ to me. And don’t you even fucking _talk_ about Katherine – or try to fucking play _therapist_ with _me_ – I should fucking _gut_ you like a _fish_ ”-

        “I’m sorry! It isn’t that I don’t think you’re, you know, scary and evil, too”-

        _Did you kill them?_ interrupted the girl.

         Freddy ignored Steven’s babbled apology. “Most. Some of ‘em are back home, waiting for us.”

         Steven trailed off in time to see her response. It seemed to him that something about her grew darker and older. She hadn’t up to this point seemed too threatening, even given her weapon, but now, Steven thought maybe he could believe her running with someone like Freddy.

 _Good,_ she said, in a tone that chilled Steven to his core.

         Freddy's face was far from easy-to-read, but something spread across it as the girl spoke; a sort of pride, maybe, mixed with something that might - Steven hoped fervently that Freddy didn't hear the thought - be almost a kind of regret or sadness.

          Steven blinked, and the look was gone. “Ready to go?” Freddy asked the girl.

         _Gods, yes._

         “Okay then.” Freddy stood up. “This guy says he wasn’t involved. I think he’s just a security guard.” He peered down at Steven. “So I guess maybe I don’t have to kill you _right now_. Call it…class solidarity; I think that’s what that means.”

          _Um…probably in this context, yeah._

         “But when you go to sleep…” Freddy grinned down at him. “Well, we’re just gonna have to _wait and see_ , aren’t we?”

         Steven didn’t know how to even begin to respond, so he decided to stay quiet and still until both their footsteps had faded out of hearing and Steven’s hands were steady enough to dial the police.

* * *

 

 

         Rezia Andolini woke up in what was a very strange hospital room. It didn’t look at all institutional; it was seamlessly homey. In fact, it looked like a bedroom in someone’s actual house.

         But of course that wasn’t important.

         _Oh my god…_ her stomach lurched. Was she going to vomit?

         Her stomach was still round and she still felt heavy. As if nothing had even happened.

         But she could still feel the change. The absence.

          _My poor baby…oh my God, I’m so sorry, this is all my fault my fault my fault my fault if I could just hide it better hold it together stop needing the pills stop wallowing in being sad stop making excuses-_

         Something stirred in what Rezia realized was a bassinet, set up near the bed she’d been tucked into. Her head still felt heavy and a part of her couldn’t imagine moving, but she still did it, still pushed herself up and crawled slowly out from under the bedcovers on shaky legs until she could look down into the cradle.

         She didn’t know how long she sat there on the edge of the mattress, doing nothing and saying nothing, only looking, as if doing anything to disturb the moment would make it all vanish. Was it a dream? Was she back at the hospital right now, sedated and dreaming it all to make herself feel better – to pretend it hadn’t happened?

         She jumped at the knock on the closed bedroom door.

         “Ms. Andolini? Can I come in?” called a woman’s voice – American, by the sound of it – in English, through the door. “There’s just the two of us out here. Me and my assistant.”

         At first, Rezia’s throat felt too dry to speak. “Okay,” she managed, unable to think of any other English at the moment.

          The door opened slowly, the woman who presumably had spoken coming in first, slowly, followed by a tall young person. Rezia couldn’t tell whether he was a man or a woman until he got close; he was dressed in fitted black clothes and had long black hair. The woman – brown-haired, somewhat plain, and rather heavyset, dressed in a thick gray sweater and a tweed skirt – seemed just a few years older than Rezia herself, but with a quality of age about her that went beyond simple physicality, which the young man shared.

          “Rezia Andolini?” the woman smiled rather nervously, shaking Rezia’s hand. “I’m Annie, and this is Loki,” she added, introducing the man. “I’m a nurse, and one of the therapists here in town, and he’s my assistant. We just wanted to make sure you and your daughter were all right, and answer any questions you might have.”

         “I…” Rezia looked down into the bassinet again. The baby still lay there, thin little eyelids giving an occasional flutter, or one chubby foot a tiny kick, every so often. “I have a daughter.”

         The woman, Annie, nodded. “We checked her out. She seems completely healthy. You’ll have to give her formula, we think, rather than nursing her, because we did put you on a low dosage of Prozac, to keep you stable. If you can tell me what your official prescriptions are, we can try to get you those.” She paused. “Don’t worry, I’ll write this all out for you so that you’ll remember. You can deal with it later. And if you’re feeling… _passable_ right now, it’s probably not too urgent.”

          The intrusion of practicality jolted Rezia out of her euphoria. “How did you – where am I? How did you get us out of there? How did you find her?” She paused. “Why would you do this for us?”

         The woman sat down on a chair by the bed, rather heavily. “Well, we’re in Maine, in America. Sort of. We’re actually in a…a different place, but it’s a piece of Maine, along with some other places. It’s hard to explain. But we’re separate up here. We’re _safe_ up here. Well, not from everything.

         "But sometimes I think we’re safe from the _really_ frightening things.

        “And we can go anywhere from here, so that’s what some of us did. We learned what they did to you, and so we sent some people to come and get you and your daughter, and to bring you both here. You’re free to leave whenever you want to, although I wouldn’t recommend it for a few more days, considering you’ve just had surgery.”

         “But why?” It occurred to Rezia that she sounded ungrateful, but she didn’t seem to have the ability to filter her words right now.

        The room filled with an awkward, deep silence, until the young man piped up. “I have two children,” he said, as if to the room at large. “My father took them away from me.” Rezia listened in case there was going to be more. Apparently, there wasn’t.

        “A lot of us here have stories like that,” Annie related. “Losing our children…or losing our parents. And unlike some of us, you didn’t even do anything to warrant it.

        “I remember having my daughter – well, my child,” she continued. “I was on medications when I got pregnant too – and I still am, as a matter of fact – and I was so scared. I was scared I’d…well, I was scared I’d fail her. In every way. You see, you’re a much better person than I am.” She smiled, looking sad. “I admire you so much, Rezia. For the way you’ve handled your…well, I don’t know what you prefer to call them; your issues – and the way you’ve handled being pregnant. So much better than I did. Everything you’ve done, you’ve done so much better than I did, and I’m so glad.”

        Rezia shook her head. She’d already moved past the strangeness of this conversation, but she had to set the record straight. “I didn’t do so well. I had a panic attack. That’s how they found out about me. If I had just been able to…to…” She felt her throat close up.

        “No.” Annie shook her head. “That wasn’t your fault. Those are never your fault. You risked one of those for your baby, and that’s brave. I’ve had panic attacks, and what you did was brave. I know I was terrified to go off my meds when I got pregnant, and you did it.” Rezia didn't know what to say to that.

        “You could stay here, you know,” Loki told Rezia.

        “Or you can go when you’re recovered,” Annie added. “It’s your choice.”

        After they left, Rezia realized how tired she was – not medicated, or at least not sedated, but naturally, honestly tired – and, with one more look at her sleeping daughter, she lay back down and fell asleep herself. She did not dream.


End file.
